


Forty Bloody Years

by lookupkate



Category: Broadchurch (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Journalist!John, M/M, Requited Love, Slow Burn, Solicitor!Sherlock, eventually, major angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:58:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is inspired by the show Broadchurch but if you haven't seen it that's okay.</p><p>A young boy is killed in a small town. The murderer is caught and comes up on trial. To everyone's horror he pleads not guilty. There's only one person who could possibly win this case and he's retired. Who could convince Sherlock Holmes, the best bloody solicitor there is, to come o of retirement to take the case? None other than the head of the local paper and the unrequited love of his life, John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts), [Darth_Nonie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Nonie/gifts), [PenelopeWaits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/gifts), [Itsallgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallgood/gifts), [Fandoms_Unite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_Unite/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts), [Le_Tabby_Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Tabby_Cat/gifts).



The body was found face down in a pool of water that was a result of the late summer rain. It was small and fragile and bloated. It was clothed, thank God, but the boy's innocence had been taken nonetheless.  
______

The thing you had to know about a town like theirs was that the people who lived there had done so for generations. It wasn't the type of place you just found yourself in, the majority of families had ancestral roots that ran deep. It was even more painful that one of their own had done it then, because that meant that years and years before, a baby had been born that would have been the cause of this crisis. No one wanted to think a baby born into such a tight knit community would grow to tear it apart.

God had lived in that town since its start, the rectory on the peak at the edge of town giving Him a good view of everything from the small downtown to the cliffs further out, as though He needed an earthly seat to watch the goings on. He was there, though, many believed, and He would be there long after this disaster had passed.

There were some that blamed God for this, the mother of the dead boy in particular, and would not understand how He had let one of their own commit this heinous act. If you asked the pastor he would tell you that God had to let man be as he was created, that He made man and had to let him come back to the flock of his own volition. In secret he talked with God long into the night over where he himself had gone wrong in not seeing it in one of his congregation. For it had to be someone from his congregation that had done it as no one in town was without God in their heart, or at least breast pocket. God was always close at hand.

It should be said that during the investigation that led up to the arrest and subsequent confession of the murderer not a single man in the town was saved from scrutiny. When a young boy is killed in a small town there is the immediate rumbling of suspected pedophilia. Maybe in bigger cities people don't have the time to focus on just that specific evil, maybe they see other reasons for murder often enough to believe they are just as possible. Either way the town threw every other explanation out the window and watched the way each of the men in the town looked at young boys with new and fevered scrutiny.

There were the few suspected homosexuals, of course, that were the first to be questioned outside the people closest to the boy. 

There was the director of the local newspaper, one John Watson, who had been assisting his protégé the night of the murder, the protégé luckily filming the meeting for a uni class he was taking just out of town. Not that anyone really believed the honourable war veteran would have done anything to the boy. Just had to check, didn't they? Seventy year old bachelors didn't look good on the books was all.

There was the man who ran the pastry shop, Aaron Willar, who had been playing poker with some friends at the comptroller's building downtown. The mayor had been one of them and the alibi held like good weatherstripping.

There was the best damn solicitor any small or large town could ask for, Sherlock Holmes, who had been at the edge of town looking after his ailing older brother. The home he was in noting that they had argued over the bill before the man left.

After those three had been let off the hook the detectives went back to those closest to the boy. They continued to find nothing.

It took months for the truth to come out, but in a small town with shifting alliances the word truth still stood on shaky ground. 

Quite a few were convinced that the wife of the murderer, who was herself a police officer, had known about the ongoing abuse, how could you not see what was going on under your own roof after all, and in the weeks that followed the man's arrest she fled the town. She left behind her job and eldest son and everyone she'd ever known, taking with her the baby and what little was left of her dignity along with all the guilt her hunched shoulders could carry. Many saw this as an admission. 

The next time the town saw the woman was the morning of her husband's arraignment. She sat with her old colleague, the detective who cracked the case open and took the confession, across from the director of the newspaper and two reporters. The director of the newspaper, John Watson, was then able to see the exact look on her face when her husband put in a plea of not guilty. He sketched her eyes on his notepad as she stood and fled the building.

That sketch would haunt John for days and would be the thing that took up residence in the breast pocket of his hunting jacket (God being left behind years prior in a desert far away) up until the day he showed up at an old friend's home to ask for help. He knew the town, after all, and world weariness drove him to return to a house he promised himself he never would.

_____

FORTY SOME ODD YEARS EARLIER

The first time John saw Sherlock he was stuck at the court for a driving violation. He sat in the lobby looking over the papers he'd been given and drinking his coffee. He'd only been back home for a month and already the universe was giving him more grief. It was difficult to look on the bright side when his shoulder was hurting and the cane resting against his leg was reminding himself that he was now an invalid.

"Move over," came a voice from his left.

He looked up to find one of the most handsome men he'd ever seen frowning at him. "Sorry, what?"

"Scoot," the man said, moving the large file folder he was holding to balance against his other hip and absently fidgeting with his biro. "You're taking up the whole bench and I have some things to look over."

"Oh, yeah, sorry," John said, moving and clearing his throat. "Suppose I didn't see you there."

"Of course you didn't," the man replied, taking the seat and opening the folder. "You're much to interested in the hundreds of pounds you'll have to come up with in the next month to pay off the traffic violation. Were you speeding?"

"How did you...yes," John croaked. 

"Mmm," the man agreed, his focus going to his paperwork.

"You're a solicitor?" John asked, peeking over his shoulder.

"Assistant to," the man explained. "Soon enough, though."

"But you have your law degree?" John asked.

"Just as you have your doctor's license," the man replied.

"Sorry, do I know you?" John asked.

"You were four years ahead of me in school," the man said.

"Oh, and we were-" John tried.

"Not friends, no," the man said. "I saw your rugby games, though. Do you still play?"

John felt his stomach drop. God, what he'd give to play again. He cleared his throat and banged his cane against his leg. "'Fraid not."

The man looked over at the cane and then narrowed his eyes, seemingly caught off guard. "I thought you were holding it for someone. There's always something."

"Are you going to tell me your name?" John asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said before standing. "Pay the ticket and get on with your life."

John watched him as he joined an older man in a particularly expensive suit and solicitor's wig and left the room. Sherlock Holmes. What a peculiar man.

_____

John did pay the ticket, deciding to sell the car to his sister after all of the trouble, and did get on with his life, taking a job at the local paper taking notes for their photographer and keeping his head down. It took three months for him to run into Sherlock again. When he did it was with the fantastic luck of being stuck at a bus stop in torrential rain, the over hang covering the expensive camera equipment he was hauling and not him. He had a rain slicker on but it did nothing for the cold.

Just when he was about to start clapping his hands furiously to get a bit of feeling back in them a black sedan pulled up. The back window rolled down and Sherlock looked him up and down.

"You've lost the cane," Sherlock noted.

"Yes, and I'll lose my job along with it if the bus doesn't get here soon. Who in the bloody hell designs these things?" John grumbled, gesturing to the small alcove that accompanied the bus sign.

Sherlock smiled softly and opened the door. John was about to ask what he was doing when the boot popped open and Sherlock nodded towards it.

"Oh, you genius man," John said with a scowl, quickly packing the equipment in. "Bloody lifesaver, you are."

Sherlock looked nervous as he slid over and waited for John to enter. John slipped in, quite literally, seconds later and slammed the door.

"Swear to god, if fate hadn't sent you my way I'd have got frostbite in the next hour," John said, teeth chattering.

"All you journalists do is exaggerate things," Sherlock said with very little heat.

"Not a journalist," John corrected.

"Not yet," Sherlock replied, and then to the driver, "the local press."

John raised an eyebrow at him and Sherlock sighed deeply before directing the heater vent towards him. He was right, of course, John would be a journalist soon enough. A journalist completely enamored with a particular solicitor's assistant.


	2. Articles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year into their friendship the boys start to have feelings for each other.

The shot heard round the world. Well, close to it. The innocent plea felt round the town. 

The birds resting on the stairs outside the courthouse seemed to take to the skies with more than normal quickness when the people who'd come to see the arraignment left the building. Already there was talk of the soon to come newspaper article and the fallout of that one sentence; not guilty, your honor.

The mother of the boy was sobbing and the father looked to be ready for murder, the sister shaking at his side. The others that had come were silent as they left, shuffling off to their normal lives with open wounds on their hearts and a little less confidence in their fellow man, if not God.

God, up on his hill, sat heavy on the vicar's shoulders as he waited for rumor to make its way to him. He'd been their that morning with the killer before everything went haywire, something he now felt rather foolish for, and had seen in the man's behavior what was simply ungodly. 

"Where had you been, Father, when he lied to me and asked for forgiveness?" He murmured, feeling guilty at even that.

Everywhere. Everywhere was the obvious answer, if you believed in Him to begin with. 

The vicar's phone rang and he stood to answer, listening as one of his parishioners asked if he'd got the news. Not guilty. Not guilty, he'd said. And then it seemed more fitting that God had seen to pound the grassy hills with torrential rain the night before, that the crashing and rumbling of thunder had reminded all in the town of his perhaps not so benevolent existence. 

The vicar sat again after the call and closed his eyes. "Show me how to give forgiveness in a situation such as this. Show me again, even as my heart fills with rage. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." Wrath was about as far from godliness as he'd found himself in quite a long time.

_____

If you'd been able to see the phone calls from the deceptively bright skies above, been able to watch them jet around like birds from home to home, you would have seen lines crisscrossing the whole of the city. Within a half hour the town had been covered in gossip, much the way it had when their mayor, perhaps a whole ten years prior, had been found to have had an elicit affair. This time, though, there had been a much less excited distribution of knowledge, if not less frenzied. 

Now you might disagree with me, might say excitement and a frenzied attitude go hand in hand, but just remember the difference between a surprise party and a car crash and get back to me on that. The town, as it had not been in almost seventy years, was still in mourning.

_____

FORTY SOME ODD YEARS EARLIER

A year later and John Watson was a classic reporter, eyes alight with mischief and pencil behind his ear each day as he picked up gossip from around the town. Gossip was somewhat of a specialty of his; people trusted him. 

He didn't write a gossip column per se, but what he did write was enough to stir up a crowd. 

Sherlock Holmes, who was now a lawyer in his own right, had been following his meteoric rise with a keen eye, taking in every article written eagerly and a slight hitching of breath. Like his women's magazines, though, he would admit the consumption at little less than torture if pressed. The business section was always quick at hand were anyone to notice him perusing johns section of the paper.

The only one to notice was his overbearing brother, of course, and that was to be expected as the man had his sticky (high priced jam on butter filled croissants, no doubt) fingers in everything. 

"Peeping Tom," Sherlock said as he shuffled the pages, agitated by his brother's presence as always.

"Reading up on your boyfriend?" Mycroft teased, with a strange smile.

"He's not my boyfriend," Sherlock spat. "And I was reading the business column."

"That lie might work on others, brother dear, but you can't pull the wool over my eyes. Please tell me you won't be foolish enough to spill any information on our case."

"Of course not!" Sherlock hissed. "I resent you saying that!"

"Resent away," Mycroft replied, taking the seat across from his brother and opening a file on his laptop, "won't change the fact that reporters can't be trusted. Reporters and the human heart. Sentimentality loosens the tongue."

"I'm not interested in sentiment and I'm not stupid." Sherlock folded the paper dramatically and slammed it onto the table, his tea cup giving up a bit of liquid to drip down the outside edge. 

His brother watched him get up and stalk away, Sherlock slamming the door to their family home behind him and making his way out of view. Probably to smoke a cigarette. Mycroft looked to the coffee table and noted the small drawer was slightly open. Definitely to smoke a cigarette, then. He ignored the temptation to follow and went back to his work.

_____

A few hours later Sherlock caught up with John outside the courthouse. Caught up suggests a predetermined meeting and although that wasn't precisely accurate Sherlock had known he would find John there as he'd been following his coverage of a local case. 

John grinned when he saw Sherlock sitting by himself in the cafeteria and took the seat next to him once he'd got coffee. Sherlock glanced up with a scowl and John chuckled.

"What's got you in such a sour mood today? Incompetent coworkers again?"

Sherlock looked John in the eye for an uncomfortable amount of time before speaking. He was searching for any clue to why he was so enamored with the man. It didn't make any sense. He wasn't particularly smart or particularly outgoing or even particularly agreeable, although Sherlock himself secretly appreciated that last bit. In outward appearance John was somewhat ordinary and yet the way he interacted with Sherlock, teasing and comfortable from almost the beginning, spoke to something else. It was that somethings else Sherlock couldn't pinpoint.

"My brother," Sherlock said at last. "Insufferable on his best days."

"Prat," John replied, having met the man. "What's he done this time?"

"Teased me about reading your articles." Sherlock's mouth fell open a bit as he realised he'd said it out loud. 

"You read my articles?" John asked, lopsided grin making his eyes crinkle...if you thought in such a romantic fashion.

"O-only to see how simple minded people view court cases," Sherlock sputtered.

John frowned at that and crossed his arms. "Simple minded?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, at himself as much as his companion. "Don't take offense, even you must know how you sensationalise things to draw in the public. The case of the blackened front stoop?"

John slumped a bit and took a deep breath. Always this with Sherlock, always the disdain for what he did. "You didn't like that one? It's been months and you're still thinking about it, must not have been that bad."

"You romanticise the mundane and encourage others to do so as well. I suppose it keeps you in a job."

"You can be a right prick when you want to be, you know that?" John said with only a little heat. "You solicitors do the same, you know. It's all fire and brimstone for you. Court theatrics don't escape my notice."

Sherlock huffed and lowered his chin. "Theatrics?"

"You lot are drama queens, I just report on it," John said with a steadily forming grin; he did so like to rile the man up.

"Your reporting makes fools of us and yourself!"

"Yeah, yeah, keep your hat on, genius. I'm gonna get something to eat. Want anything?" John asked, feeling incredibly fond at the moment.

"No," Sherlock grumbled.

"Toast it is," John replied.

Sherlock sighed and fidgeted with the salt and pepper shakers. He'd noticed the look in John's eyes. He knew what that look meant, the softness around them, the small quirk of the lip and the sigh. It just didn't make sense that it was directed at him of all people. He was rude and difficult to get along with and the last person someone as secretly amazing as John would want for anything of that sort. 

And it was foolish. Did he mention it was foolish? It was foolish.

John made it back to the table with a sandwich for himself and two slices of toast with butter for Sherlock. 

"Got any good cases coming up now that you're a big shot lawyer?" John asked.

"My second case is coming up," Sherlock said, picking at the crust on his toast until John gave him a rather stern look. "Simple domestic. Husband thinks he can get away with harassment because the person he's harassing is his wife. I'll tear him apart soon enough."

John reached out to push Sherlock's plate closer to him. "See what I mean? Dramatic."

Sherlock scrunched up his nose and sighed, stuffing half of a piece of toast into his mouth and John thought absently that he never wanted to eat with another person in his life. Funny thought, that.


	3. I'm Moving The Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that day, and thirty seven years prior.

John walked out of the courthouse with an idea. For a lot of the folks who saw the proceedings the situation seemed to be out of control but John knew someone who could undoubtedly control it. The problem was convincing that someone to come out of retirement, a retirement prompted by a secret that only John and God were privy to.

He caught a cab up to the cliffs and stood outside the house for a long time. He missed it, if he were honest, missed the beauty of the place. He tried not to think of it as a loss; he was there for a reason. He swallowed, fingering his keys in his pocket, and went to knock on the door.

When there was no response John went around back and sighed when he found Sherlock's car. The man was home, apparently, but didn't feel like answering the door. 'Probably knew it was me,' John thought, 'and is just being stubborn.' He lifted a small potted plant from its place and picked up the housekeeper beneath it. He slipped the worn key into the lock, nostalgia clenching in his chest, and turned it. The door popped open with a sign and John went in.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, back to John, listening to something with headphones on. John rolled his eyes and opened the oppressively thick curtains, bringing light into the room and letting Sherlock know of his presence in a poetic sort of way.

Sherlock removed the headphones but didn't turn in his seat.

"You're sitting in the dark," John said, leaving the door open to air the room out.

"What am I meant to say to that?" Sherlock asked, voice rumbling up and reminding John of nights with little to no sleep as he helped the man prepare for a case. He sounded tired.

"He's plead not guilty. They're going to need a lawyer. The family is. You're needed."

"I'm retired, John," Sherlock said with a sigh. "You know that well enough."

"Yes, and it's grown on you, I see. Wallowing in your own self pity?" John prodded as he went to put the kettle on.

"I'm not wallowing," Sherlock replied slowly, setting aside his laptop and standing to join John in the kitchen, "I'm reading. Audiobook. Some of us can consume actual literature."

John filled the kettle and pressed the on button. "It's going to trial, Sherlock, and if you don't think that the murder of a child in your own bloody town is enough to get off your arse about I don't know what to say."

"And your concern for my immortal soul is at stake?" Sherlock drawled, sitting in the corner and resting one spindly leg on the chair opposite.

"A child, Sherlock," John pressed. "This is the sort of thing that would have had you jumping in days past."

"Yes, well, jumping is one of the dizzying myriad of things old age has taken from me," Sherlock replied with a scowl.

"So we get you a team. A team of young bastards who can jump and-" John started.

"No," Sherlock spat. "I won't be swayed so you'd best leave."

John slammed his fist against the table and ground his teeth. "Fine. You stay here in this bunker and you shut me out."

"Don't bother to close the curtains on the way out," Sherlock said as John walked out of the room, limping slightly. "And I'm moving the key!"

_____

THIRTY-SEVEN SOME ODD YEARS EARLIER

Sherlock showed up on John's front stoop with his most important belongings in two large suitcases. After knocking and knocking he gave up and positioned the suitcases on top of each other and sat on them with his latest legal brief to wait for John to get home. 

What John was doing out when Sherlock wanted him to be in was a mystery but surely it had something to do with that awful job of his. It wouldn't have really been an awful job on anyone else but the way it took John from Sherlock at the drop of a hat was annoying. Sherlock wished John had just got some locum work where he could have a boring schedule and be home the majority of the time.

The sun had gone down and Sherlock was shivering by the time John got there. It was a surprise to see Sherlock outside his door like a rather posh version of Paddington bear, legal forms held in hand as he shivered away.

"What's happened this time?" John asked, moving around him to open the door to his small flat.

"My brother is an idiot," Sherlock grumbled, pulling the suitcases in behind himself and collapsing into John's well worn armchair with a sigh.

"That's a well known fact, yes, but what happened?" John asked, sitting on the bed and removing his shoes.

"I'd rather not talk about it," Sherlock admitted, shuffling to the other side of the flat to start water for tea on the hot plate in the kitchenette. 

John paused at that, not sure what to say. Sherlock always wanted to talk about the little fights he and his brother got into, relished in telling John exactly how wrong the older man was. This was different though. He should have known that by the luggage. Instead of pressing he turned on the heater and rustled up something for them to eat.

"I had the most amazing thing happen today," he said as they finally sat back on the beat up sofa.

"No you didn't," Sherlock replied.

John elbowed him and grinned and went on. "I was at the courthouse waiting for a verdict on the Shriner case when one of the bailiffs got into a fist fight with old man Havvaford. You wouldn't believe the punch he threw!"

"He was a prominent boxer in his twenties. That's why his left ear is one big sack of-" Sherlock explained.

"Fine, so you would believe the punch he threw," John interrupted. "But it was interesting nonetheless."

"And you'll write it up?"

John nodded fervently as he ate his sandwich. "Oh, yeah, Marion said I could. Just a little piece near the back, mind you, but my own piece. First article I'll write unsolicited."

"I fear for the masses," Sherlock replied as he stood and took his and John's plate to the small sink to wash and dry them.

"Have you got work in the morning?" John asked, stretching out and realising how tired he actually was.

"No, but I should go in around noon," Sherlock said. "Mycroft will have a fit if I don't have lunch with him."

John rose from his seat and went to brush his teeth, noting Sherlock going through his first suitcase for his pyjamas. "So we could have a sort of lie in."

"I suppose we could," Sherlock said, watching the slice of John he could see through the open loo door and suddenly noting that they would have to share a bed. 

John closed the door to the loo and Sherlock took the time alone to put on his pyjamas and get out his own toiletries. He felt strange in his house clothes in John's flat. He felt like he was at a shitty hotel and his ears seemed to perk up at the thought. But no, there would be no hotel sex. No. He would sleep in the armchair.

When he finally broke from those last few thoughts, a couple of minutes later, John was under the covers and reading one of his horrible 'true crime' books. It really should've been no wonder that his writing was so sensationalised. Sherlock shook his head and cleared his throat and went to brush and floss his own teeth.

"I'll take the chair then," he said, coming to terms with the fact that he would never fit lengthwise on John's excuse for a sofa.

"Nonsense," John replied. "We can both fit in the bed."

Sherlock rinsed his mouth and walked to the side of said bed and looked down at John in a puzzled manner, eyes flitting over him rapidly.

"You'll get a bloody crick in your neck," John added, his breath catching as Sherlock's eyes stilled on his mouth. "And, well, not like you'll try anything, right?"

Sherlock didn't laugh at the poorly timed joke as that was exactly what he was forcing himself not to think of and climbed under the duvet with a sigh. "You know me better than that."

John swallowed roughly and nodded, pretending to go back to his book but wondering if he'd ever find out how Sherlock was about...those types of things. They'd known each other for around three years and he'd never seen Sherlock's eyes settle on anyone with anything close to desire, let alone see the man date. At that point he couldn't even say it was simple curiosity, because simple was something their relationship was definitely not.

"If you aren't going to read would you turn out the light?" Sherlock asked drowsily.

John chuckled and turned the corner of the page he was on down, creasing it with his thumbnail, before setting the book aside.

"And that right there is the reason you can't have good books," Sherlock said, rolling onto his side to watch John. "Because you don't respect them."

"It's a dime store novel," John protested, turning off his bedside lamp and shoving his hands beneath his head. 

"It's a pattern," Sherlock replied. 

John smiled gently and closed his eyes. "Go to sleep, you loon."

"Is this how we'll settle every disagreement from now on?" Sherlock huffed.

"Are you going to be in my bed every night?" John shot back before thinking.

Sherlock was silent and the bed creaked as he rolled over to face the kitchenette. 

"Not that I mind," John added clumsily.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said flatly.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John replied.

It sounded weak to his own ears but he let it drop and tried to sleep with the one person he really wanted close enough to touch.


	4. All Hail The Prosecution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *rubs hands together and cackles* who else could I pick to defend a pedophile child killer? Who?

Sherlock was watching the telly the next day when something happened that changed his mind. 

John had been right, it turned out, and he'd been foolish to believe otherwise. John always knew exactly what Sherlock needed. He'd be an absolute coward to not take on the case with the new development and he was determined to save the little bit of hope the family had left.

_____

He took a long walk on the beach later that day after the urge to do so came out of nowhere. Nowhere was of course a nudge from God, the old man finally getting off his arse and directing fate a bit, human will be damned. 

While some in the weeks to come would consider this a kind act from the Almighty those who knew Him better would see it as a move in a chess game that had been played for more than millennia. Those who didn't believe in that kind of passive wickedness from He on high at that point would very much change their mind in the end. Everyone changed their mind in the end.

God pushed Sherlock that day to walk down from the cliffs and have the first cigarette he'd had in quite some time. Not that he'd given up nicotine, the small square packages filled with chewed up gum that littered his flat would tell. He would never be able to really give up his first love.

That was how he ended up walking in the direction of none other than the parents of the slain boy. They had obviously been out looking for him and they smiled weakly as they approached.

"Mr Holmes," the mother said, "I'm sure you heard the news."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, I did. I'm very sorry."

"It'll be a full trial," the father said.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, shifting and trying to walk away.

"We need your help," the mother said. "Please. You're the only one that can do this."

"I'm sorry, but I really can't help," Sherlock replied, finally getting past them.

"Just think on it?" The father asked to his back. "For Danny?"

Sherlock hunched his shoulders and continued on.

The truth was that after seeing who was to defend the murderer on the news that day he'd made up his mind to prosecute, but he didn't want to word to get out to the defense attorney by any means other than his own mouth. 

He kept on his way down the beach and received a phone call on his mobile from the man he so desperately needed to speak to. He agreed to meet him later that day and went home to prepare the beginnings of his case.

_____

Several hours later he sidled up to the man on the beach below his house and cleared his throat. Next to him was his old protégé, James Moriarty. Now, if you knew James, you might wonder why Sherlock had chosen such a man to be his protégé. The truth was a bit overconfidence and a bit God's particular brand of vicious fate.

James Moriarty was a genius. He was just as brilliant as Sherlock and Sherlock had seen that the first time he'd witnessed him in court. He also saw that the man was quite lacking in conscience. That was where the overconfidence came in. Sherlock was convinced that they could be a fantastic team and that he could mould James, more than thirty years his junior, into a weapon for social justice like what he'd become. 

Sherlock saw something he couldn't pass up in the man and had suffered greatly for it.

"I can see why you moved back," James said, drawing from his cigarette.

Sherlock sighed and looked out at the turbulent waves. "Why are you here?" 

"I'm sure you've heard that I'm defending Joe Miller," he replied, referring to the man on trial for killing the young boy.

"I have, and I'm only going to say this once," Sherlock shot back. "Don't take the case."

"And why not?" James asked, slightly amused but managing not to show it. He did so enjoy riling up his old boss.

"There is insurmountable evidence and a confession. You won't win," Sherlock explained, leaving out the best bit.

"And why are you so concerned about me losing?" James asked, finishing his cigarette and unthinkingly tossing it into the sand and crushing it with the toe of his shoe.

Sherlock frowned at the action and squared his shoulders. "Because I'd hate to beat you. I'm taking up the prosecution."

James looked up at that and glared at Sherlock taking a step back as if burned. "You'd come back for him but not for-" he growled. "Never mind. Don't be so sure you'll win this one."

And with that he left Sherlock there at the bottom of the cliffs.

_____

Sherlock made his way to the victim's family's house later that day and was greeted with enthusiasm if not joy.

"You have to know this won't be easy," he explained.

"We just want the truth," the mother said, bringing Sherlock a cup of tea. 

Sherlock took it with a nod and sat down. "The truth and justice aren't the same thing. And the truth won't bring him back. This is going to be rough, even more so because you've never been through this. Everything will come to light, every slight misdeed, every question of character. I'll need you to tell me the whole story. I need to know every bit of your relationship with the Miller's."

The father nodded and they got on their way.

_____

THIRTY-FOUR SOME ODD YEARS EARLIER

The rain was torrential, beating the windows with enough force to frighten their landlady. John was sitting in his chair reading as Sherlock went over the file for his newest case and muttered to himself. They had been living together for almost three years at that point and had settled into a perfect domesticity, making some in the town wonder if they were that type of man.

John was perturbed by that, if only for the reason that he was dating women on and off and not the 'confirmed bachelor' that some suggested.

He'd given up on dating Sherlock after they moved in together, the fact that Sherlock never returned any of his attempts at flirting leading John to believe that he was simply not interested in that sort of relationship. 

The truth of the matter was that Sherlock had understood the flirting on some level but was so convinced that John would never see him that way, much to his own dismay, that he pushed it aside as it was surely something he was making up in his mind. Besides, they were happy together, happy in their home, happy in their lives even if John dated women on and off and searched out sex on a regular basis. Sherlock would take what he could get.

"I'm heading out with Mike tonight, if this rain ever lets up," John said from his chair.

Sherlock grunted and flipped to the next page.

"Might, um, might not make it back tonight," John added.

Sherlock's stomach dropped and he tried to convince himself it wasn't an issue.

John cleared his throat and stupidly wished for Sherlock to butt in, wished for him to get angry and tell John he should stop going home with these vapid women and take him to bed instead. Of course, that would never happen. Not ever.


	5. Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case begins and back in time John and Sherlock get into their first real fight. I'm sure you can guess what it's over.

God could have done something to stop the digging up of young Daniel Latimer's body, it was His sacred ground after all that the boy was buried in, but He didn't. Instead He watched as Daniel's mother fell to her knees and blamed the detective whose husband was on trial for killing the boy.

"You should have never come back!" She screamed, their strong friendship lost and forgot by that time. "This is all your fault!"

_____

Sherlock sat on his boat out in the water watching the land, just close enough to see James Moriarty at the murder scene going about measuring things with that awful assistant of his. He'd met the woman once before and been set off kilter by the fact that she seemed sweet and energetic if you ignored the bloodlust in her eyes. She was new to it all and had no care for the repercussions of her actions. Perhaps she never would.

_____

John was standing in front of the main computer looking over what was to go to print the next day while his assistant, a twenty something woman with dark curls and an appetite for social media that would never be drowned, talked on the phone behind him. One of his workers walked in with the box he'd taken home from his desk a week before, when he'd actually thought he was quitting for good, fern sticking out from the top.

"Upstairs on my desk," he called out, sticking the biro he'd been chewing behind his ear.

The man did and John went back to proofreading.

_____

The female detective came into Sherlock's home with a smile, obviously uncomfortable and trying to hide it. 'That won't do,' Sherlock thought.

"I love your house," she said. "I've always been jealous of it. Perfect place for a nice home, on the cliffs like this. I'm Ellie Miller."

"And I'm Alec Hardy," said her companion, as if Sherlock didn't already know.

"I'm sure you know who I am," Sherlock said, sitting down and beckoning them in. "Please take a seat, as I have some questions for you."

They both sat awkwardly, passing glances to each other that Sherlock took keen note of (close friendship forged out of desperation and disaster, not sexual, trust each other completely, might lie to protect the other), and Sherlock began.

"What were you thinking? You assaulted the man in custody for the murder of a young boy," he said, passing a file over.

Ellie swallowed and opened it, shock and disgust at her own actions showing on her face as she looked over her husband's bruised side. 

"It was a difficult day," Alec replied (sticking up for her, confirmed).

"I wasn't asking you, but I do have a question for you as well. How could you let her?" Sherlock shot back. "You let your coworker come in and assault a man you were questioning, putting the whole confession on the line."

"Hey!" Alec shouted. "I stopped her as soon as I could!"

"I was shocked that my husband could have killed the child of my best friend," Ellie explained. "And the confession was given before that."

"I've seen the video," Sherlock said. "Let's hope and pray the jury won't. And it doesn't matter if the confession came before. You've done something that could destroy the most important part of my case."

Ellie had tears welling up in her eyes and Alec looked angry. Good. That was good. They needed to see how important this was. Sherlock took the file back and closed it in his lap.

_____

The vicar sat across from Joe Miller in the meeting room of the prison. He looked him in the eye though he didn't want to and laid out his case, hoping to save the man's soul.

"You can still change the plea. You can stop a lot of suffering," he said.

"Have you seen my older son?" Joe asked. "If you see him tell him I'll be home soon. Tell him I love him."

"I can't do that," the vicar replied, hate once again swelling in his chest.

"Whose side are you on, Paul? I thought you came here to help me," Joe replied.

The vicar stood and left without another word, knowing anything that came out of his mouth would be unwise. He went through the gate and nodded to the guards and jumped when his mobile rang. He looked around to see if anyone had seen him do so and answered.

"Father," the mother of the dead boy said. "I was wondering if I could see you."

The vicar looked over is shoulder guiltily and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry Beth, I'm out of town at the moment. Difficult parishioner."

"Oh," she replied, crestfallen. "Well maybe soon?"

"Yes, why don't I give you a call when I'm in front of my diary?" He asked, running a hand through his hair; a childhood tick he could never lose.

"Alright, thank you, Father," Beth said, rigging off reluctantly and brushing dirt from the top of her son's headstone.

_____

John's young assistant, Olivia, was talking about the blog, about how many people were following and the coverage the case was getting. She was doing all this in the Latimer's kitchen, the place young Danny had come for juice and biscuits. It rubbed John the wrong way.

"Don't sound so excited," he said.

Olivia just shrugged and went about typing on her mobile, filled with an energy only young people managed without chemical stimulation. John sipped his tea and heard the front door open.

Sherlock burst through and everyone moved to see.

"You told me Mark needed to speak to me," Sherlock said, looked about the room with dismay and almost walking backwards.

"Yes," Beth said with a pained smile, "well, we just wanted to get together everyone that's testifying on Danny's behalf and thank you so much for taking the-"

"This isn't appropriate," Sherlock interrupted, looking like a cornered animal. "I shouldn't be here."

John fidgeted and stuck his hands in his pockets. He knew it had been a bad idea but he'd been more interested in seeing Sherlock than in what was a good or bad idea. He now felt guilty for it.

"Well," Sherlock said, "since you're all here I might as well say something. This case is going to be grueling. You must not confer with each other or you risk the case. Often times things go pear shaped due to good intentions. This case will not be decided by a jury, but by the whole of the town. To a town, guilt and innocence are debatable. The other thing you must not, I repeat, must not do is lie."

Beth laughed uncomfortably and everyone looked to her. "Well, we won't do that, will we? We've got nothing left to hide."

Sherlock hated that line. It was a line many people told even themselves. Nothing left to hide but their souls. Nothing there.

_____

John caught up to Sherlock as he was walking from the house a few minutes later. He stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to seem nonchalant. 

"Are you ready for the case?" He asked, keeping pace.

Sherlock stopped and looked at his hands before turning to John. The look on his face had John back to where he'd been for half his life, wanting to take that face and kiss it desperately.

"Will you read to me?" Sherlock asked, the wrinkles on his brow bleeding together.

John swallowed and nodded and they headed towards Sherlock's home once more.

_____

That night Sherlock took down a black hatbox from the top shelf of his closet. It was a box he thought he'd never see inside again. He lifted off the top with a little hesitation and pulled out his solicitor's wig, running his fingers along the edge. 

It was real then, more real than it had been at any point.

_____

The next day there were so many bodies in the courtroom that the bailiff had to turn the heating down. It was a spectacle. It was a three ring circus and the first ring was about to perform. 

Sherlock stood and once again the whole room was at his beck and call.

"The man you see in the dock, one Joe Miller, killed young Daniel Latimer. He killed him and disposed of the body. At the time of his arrest he went in without resisting, saying that he was tired of all the waiting, that he wanted it to be over. He killed Daniel and confessed and there is physical evidence putting him at the crime scene. You will find him guilty."

After that there was rumbling in the court as the defense introduced themselves and called their first witness, Beth Latimer, Danny's mother.

"When did you last see your son alive, Mrs Latimer?" James asked.

"That night," Beth said, fussing with the hem of her shirt.

"How was your marriage, Mrs Latimer?" James said as he moved closer to her. "Have either of you ever had an affair?"

"That's...can he ask that?" Beth said to the judge.

"He can and you must answer," the woman replied.

"I don't see how this has anything to do with..." Beth started. 

The whole room was on the edge of their seats waiting to hear the best gossip since the death of a child.

Beth clenched her jaw and sat up straighter, arms at her sides. "My husband had an affair."

She, and the rest of the room, believed that was the worst thing she would have to admit to. They were wrong.

"And did your husband ever hit Danny?" James asked, hands behind his back and body relaxed in the manner of someone who had no problem ruining someone else's life.

Beth's jaw dropped.

"Answer the question, Mrs Latimer," James prodded. 

Beth looked at her husband, Mark, and back to Sherlock, sickened by what she had to do.

"Once," she said, voice shaking as Mark's head fell and he bit his lip. "Just once."

_____

THIRTY-ONE SOME ODD YEARS EARLIER

It was their first real fight. John had taken home a man for once instead of a woman and Sherlock was incensed. He couldn't explain, even to himself (at least not yet), why it had him so angry.

"I hope you had fun last night," he hissed as John showed the man out and came back to the sitting room.

John stopped where he was, not having seen Sherlock before he spoke, and sighed. "You mean as you were murdering that cat?" He asked.

"I was simply playing my violin. You've never had a problem with that in the past," Sherlock said, refusing to turn as he watched the man John had slept with walk to the street to hail a cab.

"You were punishing me," John shot back, "and it. If you have a problem with me bringing people home just say so!"

"I don't have a problem with PEOPLE," Sherlock spat, not sure what he was trying to say.

"So it's just men, then?" John asked. "Is that it?"

Sherlock spun and stared daggers at John. "You knew I was getting ready for a case."

"You wouldn't have bloody heard us if you were in your bedroom at half four in the morning like a normal person!" John shouted, balling his fists up as instinct told him to ready for a fight.

"Normal?" Sherlock hissed. "And would your father say it was normal to bring a man home at half four in the morning? Who are you to talk of normal?"

John pulled his jacket on over his pyjamas and walked out the door in his slippers, slamming said door behind himself and leaving Sherlock to hate himself in the flat alone.

It had been a low blow and Sherlock knew it, but he had wanted to hurt John, wanted to hurt John as John had hurt him by...by...blasted.


End file.
